


Captain America's Third First Kiss

by aingeal



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Artist Steve Rogers, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Captain America: The First Avenger, M/M, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Serum Bucky Barnes, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, SOLDIERS IN LOVE, angsty, having fun with canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 22:40:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3626913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aingeal/pseuds/aingeal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We know all about Peggy and Natasha, but what about Steve's third, first kiss?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Captain America's Third First Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> My interpretation of Bucky and Steve's back story, incorporating some of the events of The First Avenger and the Winter Soldier flash-backs.

Steve Rogers has had precisely three first kisses in his lifetime.

 

We know about two of them.

 

One: Peggy Carter, in 1945, in the back of a speeding car, moments before hurtling aboard ship to take out Red Skull, save the world, and kill himself.

Steve’s first kiss with a woman. He’d never even properly spoken with one before Peggy, before the serum, remember?

 

Two: Natasha Romanoff on a mall escalator in 2014, as a subterfuge tactic while on the run from SHIELD.

Steve told Natasha that that was _not_ his first kiss since 1945. Steve is a terrible liar. Did you see how upset he was when Agent 13 turned down his offer to use his washing machine? (What a terrible pick up line.) Anyway, that is not the face of someone with a lot of confidence with the ladies. That _was_ his first kiss, since 1945, whether he likes it or not.

So, those are the two we know. 

And the third?

 

*

 

When Bucky followed Steve back to his apartment after his mother’s funeral to offer him a place to stay, they hadn’t seen each other in eight months.

 

_“I’m with you, to the end of the line.”_

 

Steve would have given anything to hear those words last April, the last time he saw Buck.

 

We all know the official mythology of Captain America and his Howling Commandos- it’s enshrined in our collective memories as well as in the Smithsonian. James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes and Steven Rogers, BFFs practically from birth, ragging and scrapping on the tough streets of midcentury Brooklyn all through their teens until the war came, made them into men, and catapulted them into the world of heroism and real derring-do. Their childhood was the perfect creation myth for the ultimate American heroes. For Steve in particular, it was more than perfect. The steps of his future were laid out for him, determined by powers greater than he was. The serum was an instant springboard into manhood, power and great deeds, and when his identity was cemented into place by the serum and the war, when he became Captain America, his relationships were cemented too. Steve and Bucky, the ride-or-die, unshakeable boyhood buddies and battalion brothers. What other story could have made sense?

 Of course the real story is a little more complicated, because what true story isn’t? The eight months when their friendship went quiet, disappeared somewhere- the true story of Steve’s first kiss- it’s no wonder that didn’t make it into the myth. It messes up a great story. It just doesn’t make sense.

*

 

_“We looked for you after. My folks wanted to give you a ride from the cemetery.”_

_“I know, I’m sorry, it’s just- I kinda wanted to be alone.”_

_“How was it?”_

_“’Was ok. She’s next to Dad.”_

Bucky takes a breath, girds himself for what he’s been planning for days.

_“I was gonna ask…”_

_“I know what you’re gonna say, Buck, it’s just…”_

_“We can put the couch cushions on the floor like when we were kids. It’ll be fun.”_

This in a wheedling tone. He can feel it going wrong; Steve is slipping away from him, not coming around like he’d thought he would. Hoped he would. Steve fumbles in his jacket for his keys.

_“All you gotta do is shine my shoes, maybe take out the trash.”_

When in desperation, make a joke. Perhaps if he can make this seem normal, make out like they’re still kids, or that Steve would just be a lodger like loads of people had in the tenements… Steve is still searching for his keys. He seems a little dazed. He did just get back from his mom’s funeral after all. Maybe this wasn’t the right time to do this- but Bucky can’t give up now. He kicks the spare key out from under the brick by the railing, where it always is. He knows every little detail of Steve’s life. Still. He hands Steve the key. The joke doesn’t do anything at all.

_“C’mon.”_

He resorts to a “stop fucking around” tone. Can’t Steve see that he’s offering them both an out? If he would just let Bucky do this, not be so damn stubborn… Steve hesitates, then takes a deep breath and looks Bucky straight in the eye. Bucky holds his breath.

_“Thank you, Buck. But I can get by on my own.”_

His message is clear, but Bucky can’t give up.

_“The thing is, you don’t have to. I’m with you to the end of the line, pal.”_

_To the end of the line_.

It’s his trump card. His last resort.

It doesn’t work.

 

*

 

_“I’m with you to the end of the line, pal.”_

 

The words set Steve’s teeth on edge. Bucky smirks, presumably in what he thinks is a sympathetic way, and roughly grasps Steve’s shoulder in a gruff gesture of comfort, giving him a slight shake. Steve thinks it’s calculated to be terribly charming, to show Bucky off how he likes to see himself: the rough diamond, the geezer with a heart of gold. Bucky’s big palm swallows his entire shoulder, his finger pads sinking into the soft tissue of his back, his thumb pinioning his delicate clavicle. It feels like he could snap it if he wanted to. This annoys Steve, too. It’s the same as Bucky knowing where the hidden key to Steve’s apartment lives, following him home from the funeral, using _those words_. He’s wielding them like he thinks they’re magic, like he presumes that Steve will hear them and forgive him everything, just because of how important they are, were, to him. Not like as if Bucky himself had proven them completely meaningless, had pissed all over them.

Steve’s not going to fall for it. He is ticked off. Everything Bucky’s doing has that hint of condescension, of overfamiliarity, of _proprietary-_ ness that has always hovered over their friendship. He presumes his right to this role in Steve’s life, thinks he can just waltz in and make this offer, charm him with his grin and those words, and Steve will be grateful, and everything will carry on from before where they left off. Always wading into Steve’s business, into his fights, his moments. This is his moment, his grief. His alone. Bucky has no right to be here. He’d forfeited that.  

 _Where have you been for the last eight months, Buck?_ Steve wants to ask. _Where were you when she was dying?_

Tell me that, and maybe I’d take up your offer. Maybe I’d be glad to have you here with me now.

With these thoughts running through his head, Steve sighs and drops his gaze, pulling himself together, before giving Bucky a lop-sided smile. It’s a paltry thing, but it’s a smile. Steve can’t bring himself to deny Bucky at least that much; he is irritated beyond belief by his method of going about it but he knows he is really trying to make amends, and a part of him is grateful he’s here. Bucky, encouraged by the smile, tightens his grip on Steve, a probing look in his eyes. His thumb on his collarbone is hurting him quite a bit now.

 _That’ll bruise_. _Pathetic little nancy boy-_ Steve makes an effort to interrupt the self-castigating reflex and makes a decision. He takes a deep breath, shrugging his shoulder out of Bucky’s grasp, and straightens his jacket. The action asserts his autonomy, denies Bucky any easy intimacy (or _possession_ , Steve thinks acidly).  He gives another smile a try. Bucky smiles back, questioningly, not sure what to do with his hands now Steve has removed himself from his grip. He’s still hoping.

Bucky makes a spasmodic movement, reaching out as if to touch Steve’s arm, but only ending up giving his coat sleeve a light brush. He snatches his hand back and flexes his fingers by his side as if he’d just hurt them. Steve flinches, then heaves a sigh, dropping his head. Bucky feels his stomach drop simultaneously. He’d thought eight months would have been enough, that this would have worked, but it’s gone totally wrong. He’s failed.

Steve half-turns and puts the key in the door, pausing for a moment before turning his back on Bucky.

 

_“I really appreciate the offer, Buck. I’ll see you around.”_

 

*

 

The orange light of Brooklyn streetlights filters into the apartment. Steve is sitting at the kitchen table, staring into space. The room feels empty, even though all the furniture is still there. It feels silent, too, even though Steve and his mom didn’t always talk that much. It’s the smell and sizzle of her cooking, the shuffle of her slippers as she worked with perfect familiarity in her small but shipshape kitchen, the crinkle of the newspaper she read every evening, the one cigarette she’d permit herself before bed. The warm summer air with its Brooklyn stench floating into the room as she smoked out of the window, chatting with her friend next door, sending their smoke to curl around the laundry strung across the narrow alley between the blocks, Steve listening to the murmur of their chatter as he lay in bed in the next room or banged out the front door for a night out with Bucky. It’s all that that’s missing. All that that is gone forever.

 He’s getting cold sitting there. It’s getting late. He sighs heavily and rouses himself from his despondency, fixes himself some cereal, eats it standing at the counter, tries not to see the ghosts all around him. He goes to the bathroom, washes. Brushes his teeth. Takes off the tie he wore to the funeral a million hours ago that morning, and then hesitates, staring at himself in the mirror, before unfastening the top buttons of his shirt and pulling it to one side. There. On his left collarbone, a small blue bruise shows up vividly against the rest of his pale skin. The print of Bucky’s thumb. He tries not to, but he can still feel the pressure of his firm grasp and see Bucky smiling down at him, uncertain for once, silently asking Steve to give in. To forgive him. Steve stares at the bruise for a few moments in the mirror. His face above looks pinched and exhausted in the harsh bathroom light. He sighs and blinks wearily, passing a hand across his hair. On their way down his fingers press themselves lightly, just for a second, to the purple smudge on his chest. It feels like nothing to his hand. Just the dull pain of the burst capillaries beneath the skin. Barely anything. He turns away, turns the light off, and goes to bed. Tries to get warm. Tries not to think.

It’s December 6th, 1941. In the morning, the Japanese will bomb Pearl Harbor. America will join the War. Steve Roger’s life will change forever.

 

*

The next time Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers see each other, it’s by accident. Steve is standing on a corner with his nose buried in the evening paper, which is being buffeted around by the cold wind rushing up the street. He has become obsessive about following the news from Europe, where the troops are being moved and what offences are being played. Reading the casualty lists. He has no gloves and his hands look raw in the blue light of late afternoon, and actually in general he looks terrible, tiny and huddled against the cold, inadequately dressed. He hasn’t eaten so well since his mother died, and work is slow. People aren’t too interested in comics right now. The shock of being at war is still shaking America, and the time hasn’t yet come for people to want to make it into entertainment. Soon enough comic books will boom, but times are lean for Steve.

 He looks up from his paper just in time to see Bucky walking past on the other side of the street. He’s unmistakable even from behind, swaggering a little in his grey pinstriped overcoat that makes him look like a wannabe gangster.

 

_“Bucky! Hey, Buck!”_

The words are out of his mouth before he knows what he’s doing. They’re born purely out of instinct. In what world would Steve Rogers hesitate to call Bucky Barnes over if they met in the neighborhood, or freeze with dread anticipation of his response? A year ago, it would have been laughable. But now… Steve’s heart is hammering like crazy. What if Bucky doesn’t turn round? What if he _does_?

 Bucky does turn, his head snapping back at the sound of his name and a puzzled frown on his face as he scans the evening crowds, searching for the source of the call. He doesn’t see Steve immediately, and in that time Steve is desperately torn between yelling again and making a dash for it. Instead he does nothing, standing a little foolishly with his paper clutched in his hands and a mildly petrified look on his face. _Why did I do that? What kind of an idiot am I? Why does he have to live right here in this goddamn neighborhood anyway? It’s_ MY _neighborhood! Someone should make him go away!_ Outrage mingles with vague terror in his chest.Steve had been doing so well avoiding him up ‘til now, despite Bucky’s couple of attempts to talk to him again. He’d even come to the door one day some weeks ago, just before Christmas, probably to ask him to join him and his folks for the festivities. Steve had pretended he wasn’t at home. He spent the 25th alone, listening to the radio, thinking about the men spending Christmas out there in danger, in Europe, so far from home.

 Bucky has spotted him. He flashes his broadest grin, raising his hands in exaggerated surprise. It’s the smile he uses on girls he wants to charm. Steve’s nervousness evaporates, leaving only a dull ache in his throat. He feels a bit sick, and pretends not to know it’s from disappointment. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but what he’d got was the same old Bucky that everyone saw. Supremely confident. Such bravado. Not a flicker of genuine excitement or fear or anxiety crosses his face as he makes a dash through the traffic, raising hoots from the cut-up drivers, and mounts the sidewalk right by Steve’s elbow, throwing his arms out for a hug. Just that cheesy, fake grin. Steve permits the hug because he doesn’t know what else he could do, but he grimaces over Bucky’s shoulder and pulls away first, having barely let their weights meet.

  _“Rogers! Steve, buddy, how’ve you been?!”_ Bucky is grinning manically, his eyes darting around. The vein in his forehead is popping. He’s not as cool as he’s pretending to be. People hustle by them on their way home from work. Steve and Bucky are in the way, making a scene. _“Mom and Pop were sorry to not see you for Christmas, they keep asking after you. I just tell ‘em, oh, you know Steve, he looks out for himself.”_

 This is coded. He’s letting Steve know he’s disappointed that he hasn’t come around yet. Still irritated he didn’t accept his offer, as if Steve had no good reason for turning down the Barnes’s hospitality. _You’ve even disappointed my poor old parents_. Nothing could be more perfectly calculated to piss Steve off. It’s as if Bucky is choosing to not even remember the last time they talked, or the- the time before that. He truly thinks he can make everything work out the way he wants it by pretending hard enough and flashing his smile. No fucking integrity. No _sensitivity_. Steve’s looking down at the sidewalk, his eyes dark and his jaw tight.

  _“Yeah? Well you know how it is, been busy.”_ Steve knows this is not exactly honest, but he has been busy, in his way. Busy keeping track of any bit of news of the Allied forces. Busy being rejected from the army in his increasingly desperate attempts to enlist.

 There’s an awkward silence. Bucky looks around as if hoping someone will intervene. The wind’s gone out of him- Steve is not giving him anything to work with. He’s not used to people failing to respond to his charm, but then, Steve’s always been that way. He saw right through him. Evidently still does. He licks his lips and latches on to the first thing he sees- Steve’s newspaper. The headline is about enlistment statistics. He gestures towards it.

  _“Guess we’re really in this war now, huh? Bet it won’t last much longer now we’re going after those goose-steppers!”_ He wheezes out a forced little laugh.  “ _Did you hear the O’Connell brothers from our block have joined up? Martinez too. I’m going in myself Monday. Have you thought about it?”_

 As soon as he says it, he regrets it. He’d forgotten for a moment who he was talking to, just running his mouth and saying the first thing that came into his head. Never one comfortable with a silence, he has inadvertently stumbled into the most uncomfortable topic possible. The look on Steve’s face is murderous. Bucky is furious at himself. Just look at Steve: apart from his sharp, hard, vivid face, he looks so feeble in his worn out jacket, standing no chance against this wind. There is no way in hell a right-minded man would let Steve join his army. And of course Steve would want to. How could he resist the biggest fight the world has ever seen, the chance to help take down the ultimate bad guys? Poor Steve. He’s thinner than ever, and drawn, and insubstantial, buffeted by the crowds around them, making Bucky’s heart twist in his chest, his instinct to protect Steve rising, amidst the growing sense that he’s really hurt his feelings. Again. His mouth flaps uselessly as he struggles to think of something to undo what he’s just said.

 Steve’s not feeling insubstantial. He’s feeling hot everywhere, his face flushing as his anger bubbles up inside him. Damn Bucky. Bucky with his stupid insensitive big feet, clomping around and squishing absolutely everything important to Steve, so supremely confident in his own powers that he barely need consider other people’s feelings. Bucky has always thought he’s powerful enough for the two of them, never considered how weak that made Steve feel. He thought he could win Steve over, just like that, just by being bigger and more confident. As if nothing had damn well happened between them! Or, even worse, that it didn’t matter that it happened. Even now he’s trying to wiggle out of what he’s said instead of just apologizing like a normal person, goddamnit! Steve’s had enough of it, for real this time. When he speaks, his voice is deadly cool, but it rises as he goes on until he’s almost shouting in Bucky’s face.

  _“Thought about it? Yeah, I’ve thought about it. You could say that. You could say I was there at the office the first day they opened enlistment. And I’ve been back. I’ve been back four. Damn. Times. Have I thought about it? I never stop thinking about it! I’ll never give up! You don’t know what it’s like, do you? To have men look at you and treat you like a child, pat you on the head and send you on your way like it’s a little game? One of the officers, he took one look at me and he said:_ You gotta be kidding me. _He said that to my_ face _, Bucky. You don’t understand. You can just decide to go and they’ll be all over you, they’ll love you, you’ll be perfect, and it doesn’t even mean the same to you. This means so much to me, and they- they’ll never let me. You could never understand.”_

He looks Bucky up and down with something approaching disgust. Bucky raises his hands impotently against Steve’s rage.

  _“Look, Steve, I’m sorry- I didn’t mean-”_

_“I know you didn’t, Buck. You never do. You just don’t THINK.”_

_“C’mon man, there’s no way I could have known you were going through this, you haven’t talked to me since before Pearl Harbor…”_

_“Oh yeah, yeah- it’s my fault. How could you have known? It’s me who’s the jerk who won’t talk to you. It’s not like you know me at all. Knew me. Could have had some empathy. No, it’s me who should be sorry. FOR EVERYTHING.”_

 Bucky doesn’t know what to do. Steve is never sarcastic like that, has never been so caustic. It’s frightening. But he knows he has a right to his anger. A right to not trust him any more. Bucky deserves it, for being insensitive now, and for what he did, before. He drops his hands, drops his head. Bites his lip.

  _“I’m sorry Steve. I- I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”_

Steve’s not wavering, won’t concede Bucky a smile this time. He snorts coldly and stuffs the newspaper into his pocket.

  _“It’s too late now, Buck. Far too late. Good luck in Europe. You’ll be great.”_

Bucky watches him helplessly as he stalks away down the crowded street, the small blond head disappearing among the taller bodies surrounding him, thin shoulders hunched against the cold. Bucky doesn’t see the tears running down Steve’s face as he hurries away. He doesn’t even guess they’re there. All he feels is dazed.

 He stands dumbstruck, one hand ruefully stroking his jaw, feeling the stubble beneath his fingertips. He can’t see Steve anymore, but he can picture him on his walk home, so clearly. So many times they’d walked that way together. His other hand is clenched in his greatcoat. It feels so empty. He feels so empty. Maybe if he’d reached out, wrapped his hand round Steve’s wrist and pulled him back, or curled him into a hug close to his chest, maybe that would have transmitted how truly sorry he is, better than his useless words. But then he remembers how well _that_ had worked last time, on the stairs outside Steve’s place. He guesses he can understand Steve’s reluctance to respond to his touch any more. And he knows he went about this all wrong, like he had before- completely failing to actually communicate anything important to Steve. He’d been terrified, and he’d done what he always does when he’s terrified- puff himself up, glide safely on the surface. He wasn’t good at this emotional stuff. Goddamn it all to hell. He wishes he could turn back time to before that April night when this whole disaster started- when he started it. He wishes he could fix it. He would do anything to fix it, but a wave of panic rises up to slap him at his sudden realization that this might never get fixed. He’s out of chances and out of time. He’s going off to Europe. He might die out there.

He might never see Steve again.

 

*

 

_We’ll face any threat, no matter the size, with the help of the Allies…_

The newsreel’s voiceover plays in his head as he jumps to his feet. He tries to dodge, but is swiftly taken down again. Scrambling up, he grabs a trashcan lid, wields it like a shield. He gets his ass kicked anyway. Getting his ass kicked in the back lot of the local movie theatre, by a shirking layabout asshole. It feels fantastic. After this latest rejection from the enlistment office, after his run-in with Bucky two weeks ago, it just feels so good to fight, to let out all the pain and frustration inside him. Steve’s taking the knocks and getting back up again and again, taunting the guy, practically egging him on. This is what he knows how to do. No-one can tell him no, not here. He’ll never back down. The guy isn’t very quick but he punches hard, and it doesn’t take much to knock Steve off his feet. The pain sings through the bones of his face. He can feel his lip is split and maybe his eyebrow too. He’ll have a mighty shiner the next morning. Blood is running into his mouth. He spits it out and drags himself to his feet once again.

 His attacker jeers at him as he staggers, dizzy from the knocks. _“You just don’t know when to give up do ya?”_

 _“I could do this all day.”_ Steve slurs, raising his fists. He takes yet another right hook and sprawls into the trash cans. He doesn’t get up immediately this time. His head is ringing. There’s garbage juice on his jacket.

 

  _“Hey! Pick on someone your own size!”_

Steve can’t believe his ears. He must be concussed. Bucky’s here? Bucky’s _here_? Now? It’s impossible, but from the sounds the guy is making as Bucky kindly returns his ass-kicking to him, he certainly seems real. It sounds just like every other time Bucky had rescued Steve from some quixotic scrap he could never hope to win. Before.

Steve manages to stand, still swaying. Then Bucky’s there. Right in front of him.

_“Sometimes, I think you like getting punched.”_

_“I had him on the ropes.”_ The quip flies to his lips without conscious thought. It’s autopilot Bucky-Steve banter. He doesn’t know what’s happening. Why is Bucky here? How is he here?

 _“How many times is this…”_ Bucky picks up the form that had spilled out of Steve’s jacket the second or third time he went down, examines it. He either means getting beat up, or rejected from the army. Well, it feels like they both’ve happened countless times by now anyway.

_“Oh you’re from Paramus now? You know its illegal to lie on the enlistment form? And seriously, Jersey?”_

Steve is too confused to even chat back to this, let alone ask him what he’s doing here. He wipes his hands on his pants and looks up. Suddenly takes in what Bucky’s wearing. Uniform.

_“You got your orders?”_

Steve looks horrified.

“ _The 107 th, Sergeant James Barnes, shipping out to England first thing tomorrow.”_

Bucky makes this humorous, with a bit of a show of self-consciousness, but he can’t help the glint of pride in his eyes. Steve tries not to look crestfallen. He can’t gather his thoughts and he doesn’t know what to say. He shakes his head as if to clear it, to give himself time to think.

No. He’s not going to do this. He’s not going to give Bucky the goodbye he wants, that he’s obviously tracked Steve down for. Not after the other day. Not after all that’s happened since last April. Almost a year now. He can’t believe how long it’s been. It still feels so raw.

He stands up straight and gives Bucky a final look. It’s not warm.

_“I should be going.”_

Bucky’s eyes flicker, not quite meeting his gaze, his face falling, caught off guard by Steve’s sudden hostility. He teeters on the brink of crumpling, of apologizing and walking away. But finally he knows he won’t. Won’t let Steve have it his way. There’s no way it’s going to end like this, not when he’s going to war _tomorrow_. He’s going to get Steve under his sway again. He exerts all his strength and all his charisma. He knows Steve won’t be able to resist. Not now Bucky is leaving. Not this one last time. He slings his arm round him.

_“Come on man, one last night. Gotta get you cleaned up.”_

Just like old times.

Steve ducks out from beneath Bucky’s arm, he won’t let that fly, but he doesn’t resist otherwise. He’s going along with it, walking like a sleepwalker where Bucky’s taking him. He doesn’t know what else to do.

_“Why, where we going?”_

_“The future.”_

 

*

The World of Tomorrow Expo is like some surreal futuristic version of hell. Shrieking girls and red-faced young men in uniform scamper through the heaving crowds, barging into each other and exploding into giggles. A grotesque Uncle Sam on enormous stilts stalks past Bucky and Steve, leering down at them and waving. There’s light and music everywhere, fireworks. Steve can barely work out if they’re indoors or out. It’s about ten million degrees, from the lights and from the heat pouring off all the teeming young bodies. He couldn’t guess what most of the exhibits are supposed to be. He can’t really remember how they got here; Bucky must have taken them back to Steve’s apartment. He’s wearing clean clothes and there’s sticking plaster on his eyebrow. His head is reeling from all the sights and sounds, from the knocks he’s taken to the head. From Bucky.

They’re walking along, off to meet some dates Buck has conjured from mid-air. They’re making jokes about women, about dating. Bucky is joshing him about being the only eligible bachelor left in New York. It’s really not funny, but Steve laughs anyway, like they’ve bantered this way every damn day of their lives. He guesses they used to be like that, so easy in their humor and affection, their in-jokes, their jibes at each other. But it was never quite like this, even before. It’s like they’re playing some version of themselves where Steve as well as Bucky is a hopeless womanizer. As if any woman ever willingly came within six feet of Steve. The whole show is a little hysterical, about to crack at the edges.

As the crowd parts the girls spy Bucky and call him over excitedly. Bucky puts on his very handsomest grin. He looks fantastic in his uniform. The girls practically fall all over him. It’s nauseating.

 _“What did you tell her about me?”_ Steve asks Bucky out of the corner of his mouth. He’s still playing along.

_“Only the good stuff.”_

Steve doesn’t know how to even begin to interpret that.

 The girls draw them into the shrieking crowd around a stage where Howard Stark is showing off his levitating car, leering at his glamorous assistants in their high cut outfits that show off their long legs; if this is hell, then Stark is a depraved Satan. Steve puts in a half-hearted attempt to interest his girl, offers her some candy. The girl looks at him as if he’s mad and pushes to stand next to Bucky rather than him. He’s being insanely jostled by the excitable crowd, being pushed up close to Bucky, who’s standing in front of him with a girl on each arm. Steve looks at the curve of Bucky’s ear, his neat new haircut beneath his smart new cap. His clean neck above the khaki. He’s so close. Steve can’t do this.

The car smashes to the floor. Bucky grins and turns to Steve to share the joke, as if they were back at school and the teacher had tripped over at the front of class. Steve fails to acknowledge him. He’s staring into space. He feels completely out of it, like he’s leaving his body. Why is he here? _I can’t do this,_ he thinks. _I can’t do this._ As the crowd starts to applaud and hoot, laughing along with the grinning Howard Stark, Steve slips away. He doesn’t know where he’s going, he’s pushing blindly through the manic crowds, disorientated by the lights and all the faces, until he sees the sign and reads the words, standing out above the madness.

 

_Recruitment Office._

 

*

Bucky finds Steve shaping himself up to the recruitment poster. You’re supposed to see your face transposed on the figure of the soldier. Steve can only see the top of his head. It’s so _humiliating_. There’s a deep pit of self-loathing in his stomach and his fists are clenched. He glares at the retreating backs of a laughing couple, mentally abusing the man for his failure to be in uniform, his failure to take his chance to do his duty. Steve hates him. Almost as much as he hates himself.

 Bucky jocularly shoves Steve, jolting him out of his reverie. The shove is too rough, it makes Steve’s skin crawl. Like when he placed a hand round Steve’s shoulder, left a mark there- but he won’t think of that. His face darkens. It’s quieter here in the office, so he can hear himself think. And he realizes he’s angry. He’s angry at himself for going along with this ridiculous evening, for choosing to put aside all their problems. And he’s angry at Bucky; he can’t believe how casual he’s acting. Well, he can believe it. Bucky’s just doing what Bucky does. Smoothing everything over. Pretending. And Steve’s doing it too. What a joke.

_“Come on, you’re kind of missing the point of a double date. We’re taking the girls dancing.”_

_“You go ahead. I’ll catch up with you.”_

His voice is flat. If he lets Buck go off, he can slip into the office, maybe this time it will happen…

_“You’re really gonna do this again?”_

How dare Bucky say it like that, so patronizingly. He’s still acting like he has any right to have opinions about what Steve does with his life.

_“Well it’s a fair. I’m gonna try my luck.”_

Steve is too tired to fight. He just wants Bucky to go away.

_“As who, Steve from Ohio? They’ll catch you, or at worst they’ll actually take you.”_

Steve clenches his jaw. He doesn’t want to fight, but Buck is making it hard. The attitude is just so familiar, and Steve really can’t handle it. So superior, knowing so much better than Steve. Always like this. Lecturing him like a little kid, never having any faith in him. He sees it so clearly now. But if Bucky knows one thing, it should be that Steve never backs down.

_“Look, I know you don’t think I can do this, but-”_

_“This isn’t about courage, Steve, it’s a war.”_

_“I know it’s a war-”_

_“Why are you so keen to fight? There’s so many important jobs.”_

_“What do you want me to do, collect scrap metal –_

_“Yes-”_

_“-in my little red wagon?”_

_“Why not?”_ Bucky is being ridiculous.

 _“I’m not going to sit in a factory, Bucky. Bucky!”_ He suddenly smiles, can’t believe this is happening, it’s so ludicrous. He tries one last time to get Bucky to understand. _“Come on. There are men laying down their lives. I got no right to do any less than them. That’s what you don’t understand. This isn’t about me.”_

_“Right. ‘Cuz you got nothin’ to prove.”_

There he goes again. Cutting right in to Steve, just where it hurts. He does it so casually, and Steve hates that he has to admit the truth of his words. He looks down, a dull blush warming his cheeks. It’s partly from anger, partly from a trembling feeling; no-one knows him like this, as well as Bucky does, even now after all that has happened. Even when it’s as painful as this, he knows it’s true. Bucky knows him. And he knows Bucky. If only Steve hadn’t tried to kiss him. If only the war hadn’t come. If only… There’s no point thinking that way.

Bucky is giving him a condescending look. He thinks he’s won. The girls call for him and he instantly switches on the charm, goes over to join them. He won’t listen to Steve. He’ll go off and dance and have fun and have a swell time in Europe. He’ll get a medal. Or he’ll die. Steve will never see him again. He calls back to Steve:

_“Don’t do anything stupid until I get back.”_

He’s going. Already gone.

 _“How can I? You’re taking all the stupid with you.”_ Steve’s eyes glitter with humor, and something darker. Bucky might be the one walking away, but he won’t let him have the last word.

Bucky comes back towards him. He can’t quite bear to leave just like that, with tension and hostility and misunderstanding still rippling the air between them.

 _“You’re a punk.”_ That’s the closest he can get to affectionate.

They hug, briefly, Bucky’s stiff new uniform chafing against Steve’s cheek. He breathes deeply, but all it smells of is newness. Tears heat his eyes but he keeps them at bay. This is real. It doesn’t feel it.

_“Jerk. Be careful.”_

Bucky nods, and he’s really leaving now. Steve swallows hard and hesitates _,_ but he calls out: _“Don’t win the war ‘til I get there.”_ It’s bravado. He needs to say it. Needs to believe that he will get there, one day. That he’ll see Bucky again. Needs to try and convince him one last time.

Bucky salutes and walks away into the crowd. He’s quickly swallowed up by it. He’s gone.

 

* 

So you can see why they left this bit out of the canonical tale of Captain America and James “Bucky” Barnes. To be honest, it would be a bit embarrassing for everyone. Two guys who are supposed to be the bestest friends that ever fought side by side, acting like crazy mixed up kids? Being complete idiots and not just hugging it out or having a light punch-up to settle things? Midcentury America just wouldn’t have got it, and let’s be honest, 21st-Century America probably wouldn’t have coped that well either. Leaving aside the whole kissing thing, because we’re cool with that these days, the whole sorry situation is just uncomfortable. No, better to just pretend all that never happened. Let’s fast forward to the battle grounds of Europe, to Steve’s first taste of real action after his stint as a propaganda pony, in the legendary rescue of the four hundred POWs. Maybe things will be a bit more normal there. And maybe we’ll finally find out about that first kiss.

 

*

_Hey! Let’s hear it for Captain America!_

Bucky didn’t know he was going to do this, and Steve’s stage name sounds a little ironic coming out of his mouth, but it makes sense when the raggedy troops circling Steve start whooping and cheering, applause breaking out across the base. He’s happy for him, excited by the men’s excitement, but really he just wanted to break up the charged moment crackling between Steve and that English broad. He’s seen her around the base a few times, up in the chief’s tent, but he hadn’t put two and two together. When Steve had told him at length about his exploits since Bucky had last seen him- the surprising recruitment experience, his humiliation at the training camp, the shock of being chosen for the serum, and the transformation itself, his first taste of heroism and his time in the trenches of music hall propaganda, his transfer to Europe- Agent Carter, _Peggy_ , had featured heavily in the telling, but Bucky hadn’t realized that the pretty brunette was her. He’d imagined someone older, more severe. Kinda motherly. The way Agent Carter is looking at Steve, all red lips and glowing eyes, is decidedly not motherly.

Bucky claps along with the rest of the guys, smiling and raising his eyebrows to show his approval when Steve looks over to him, but as he turns to take in the applause, Bucky’s face falls and his mouth twists. He looks away from Steve, who has locked eyes with Carter again. The look goes on and on, until finally the soldiers around Steve start grabbing at him and haul him off to celebrate some more in the mess tent. _God, it’s like they were the only people there,_ Bucky thinks to himself, trailing after the whooping men. Steve has a shit-eating grin on his face, shining it all around him, shaking hands, clasping shoulders, absolutely basking in their admiration. The men love him, and, well, Carter- she clearly _somethings_ him. Bucky knows that no woman has ever looked at Steve that way before, and apart from with Bucky, he has never had the respect of men like this. The big hero that has always been inside Steve is finally reflected on the outside, and people can see him for the first time. This new Steve is who he was always meant to be.

 Bucky is not exactly comfortable with his feelings about this. _He was your best friend, Buck,_ he tells himself severely. _You should be happy for him._ He IS happy for him, he is! It’s not that. And he’s not jealous. Bucky has had no problems gaining the respect of his platoon, and on their excursions into little Italian towns he’s had more than his fair share of dark-eyed lovelies to buy drinks for. It’s not like he has much to prove in that department. It just feels _weird_ , to see Steve like this. From his place a few feet away, perched on a table while Steve laughs and jokes with the men grouped about him, Bucky examines him. He has his jacket off, and evidently only his white cotton undershirt survived the explosion at the factory and the long walk back across enemy lines into their territory. It is very, very tight. It looks like it’s going to cut off the blood supply to Steve’s biceps. It looks like he’s been molded out of marble. Or steel. Bucky had felt the strength in those muscles when Steve had rescued him from that creepy lab. They’re not just for show, but boy, they sure do look good.

If Bucky had been good at being honest with himself, he would have acknowledged that this new superman version of Steve just doesn’t fit in with how Buck had always seen him, and _that’s_ what he doesn’t like. Or rather, it fits in too well. Sure, _he’d_ always known Steve had had the pluck and heart of three men, that he had a quick wit and a way with people. That he was kind. That he was… loveable. But now _other people_ can see that too, now they don’t just see a canary-looking little bantam-weight fella with ideas bigger than himself… He’s not just Bucky’s any more. That’s what’s eating him. It’s so selfish, but it’s true. Bucky had loved being the big guy on Steve’s side, backing him up in the school yard and on the streets, always there to finish the fights he got himself into, to clean him up and take him out on the town. Loved throwing his arm round those shoulders like sharp little wings, or threading it round his slim waist as they took the town, or feeling the tiny bones of his wrist when he would wrap his big hand round it. Once upon a time he could easily make a ring round that wrist with his thumb and every one of his fingers, even the pinkie. Steve had made him feel so big and strong. But now- well, now look at him. He wouldn’t need Bucky the same way any more. And now he has a woman too, that Carter, just hanging off his every word… Not that Bucky’s bitter. He doesn’t blame her. What right-thinking woman could resist Captain America? 

Bucky sighs and runs his hands through his hair, a reflex that he hasn’t lost from before he got his short army crop. It’s boiling and a million decibels in here and he’s feeling restless and discontented with himself. He just got broken out of a POW camp and saved from god knows what hellish Nazi experimentation by his best friend, who he’d thought he’d never see again. Why can’t he be happy? He frowns, his face a picture of sulkiness. Bucky doesn’t like feeling unsure of himself. He tells himself he’s just tired and decides to go to bed, taking one last look at Steve’s familiar face, eerily transposed onto the body of a god. It gives him the shivers. He unobtrusively gets up and threads his way out of the tent, into the cold Italian night air. He pauses to breath deeply, refreshing himself. He closes his eyes. His body does feel tired. It’s been a hell of a day. Hell of a week. Hell of a war. It’s time to hit the hay.

 

*

 

_“Hey. Where d’you think you’re going?”_

 

Steve. Bucky hadn’t thought he’d noticed him leave.

 

Bucky doesn’t open his eyes. He breathes out a heavy breath through his nose and licks his lips. He looks pained. He’s so tired now. He doesn’t want to do this. Since he and Steve had been reunited, they’d managed to not be alone too much, always surrounded by other men- the life of a soldier. And also since then, Bucky has been remarkably successful at not thinking about the past. Now though, unbidden, come flashes of the last few times he has seen Steve. The awful times they had parted with bitterness between them. Too many times.

He doesn’t turn round. Steve steps in front of him and places a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. Is it on purpose? Is it supposed to remind Bucky of that time after the funeral? Is he telling Bucky: _The tables have turned now, buddy_? Bucky sighs gustily and looks away, into the dark night, twisting his lips. He looks like a sulky kid, like he’d rather be anywhere else than here. Steve frowns, confused. Drops his hand from Bucky’s shoulder. He actually _hadn’t_ meant the gesture any particular way, but he can guess Bucky’s thoughts and see how it must’ve looked.

  _“Bucky? What’s up?”_ He’s not sure what to say.

“ _It’s nothing, man, I was just getting a little claustrophobic back there. I’m pretty wiped to tell you the truth. ‘Bout to turn in. You get back to the guys and have fun.”_ Bucky gives an evasive smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Steve hadn’t expected this. In the whirlwind of the mission, its unexpected success, the joy at seeing Bucky again, and just all the excitement of being here, of being in Europe, of really _being_ Captain America, finally, after all that play acting… He hadn’t really thought about what would happen between Bucky and him. Hadn’t given him a great deal of thought at all actually- after all, Europe was a big place. What was the likelihood they’d bump into each other? He was moving on. But when Peggy had uttered those awful words- “ _That’s all that’s left of the 107 th_”- when fear had closed round his heart, when he thought that Bucky was dead, his only thoughts were of going after him, trying to find him, rescue him if he could. All the other men too, of course, but he wouldn’t pretend to himself or anyone else that the main reason he’d charged into that fight wasn’t Bucky. It’s just that somehow he hadn’t had time to picture what might come after. Just now, back in the tent, he’d been aware that Bucky was withdrawn- he could always read Buck’s moods from the quirk of his eyebrows, the set of his mouth – but he’d thought, maybe, that Buck had wanted to be with him alone, was resentful of the men crowding around him. That’s why he’d followed him out here. He’d thought it was what he wanted.

He searches Bucky’s face. It’s still so weird to look _down_ at him, only slightly, but most definitely down, now. Bucky doesn’t give him anything. Steve makes a frustrated sound, swings his arms.

_“Look, Buck, I know this is weird. I know you weren’t expecting to see me back there, and especially not- not looking like I look now, but seriously, what’s wrong? You mad at me about something? It’s not Peggy is it? Because you should know there’s nothing-”_

Bucky doesn’t let him finish that. He snorts and shakes his head, smiling sardonically.

_“You keep telling yourself that, Rogers.”_

_“I’m serious, Bucky, if that’s it, then you have nothing to worry about. She’s my superior officer, that’s all. She helped me save you. Save all of you.”_

Bucky balks at this. What’s Steve implying? Yeah, he’ll admit he’d been uncomfortable when Steve and Carter had been making eyes at each other in front of everyone, but who wouldn’t have been? It was embarrassing. They’d been behaving like teenagers. That’s all it was.

_“Worry? Why the hell would I worry about what chick you’re banging, Steve? I’m happy for you. Finally got your dick wet.”_

Steve makes a disgusted noise. He hates it when Bucky is crude. But he has a point. Steve had said something that shouldn’t have been said, that came too close to the truth that had shattered things between them. It was a huge presumption to make, and he was surprised at himself. He was betraying the fact that he was still wondering about Bucky’s feelings, guessing- hoping. He knew Bucky would be offended- hence the harshness, the crudeness. Steve’s messing this up. He sighs, tries to start over.

 _“I- we- Agent Carter and I- we aren’t- we’re not doing anything. Definitely not that_ , _but it doesn’t matter anyway, Bucky. Bucky. Please. Y’know I came out here to talk to you-”_

_“You want to talk to me. Right. You got something to say now, do ya? Funny, I seem to remember you didn’t have too many words for me not so long ago.”_

Bucky finally looks Steve in the eye. It’s a stubborn and defiant gaze, issuing a challenge. So he’s going to do this. Drag everything back up, still make Steve look like the bad guy for not talking to him, even though it was _Bucky_ who’d disappeared for eight months, while his mom coughed herself to death, Bucky who’d pushed Steve away, who’d been _disgusted_ with him- Steve stops himself. He doesn’t want to be drawn into this. He thought that after all that has happened, the war, the serum- everything’s so different now. And he’d been so overjoyed to find Bucky alive, he certainly hadn’t been at all inclined to revive their fight, revisit the past. He’d thought they could let bygones be bygones.

_“What do you want me to do, Buck?”_

 

He says it quietly, with sorrow in his voice, his soft gaze absorbing Bucky’s glare. It feels like a dreadful stalemate. Steve wishes they didn’t have to fight, but he can’t see a way out. All the tension’s gone out of him. He just feels sad.

 At Steve’s words Bucky’s eyes flare; he’s undeniably affected by Steve’s tone, his vulnerability, the softness in his face and in his stance. His heart clenches. But he’s feeling too jangled up to take what Steve’s offering, and anyway, there was still that shadow looming from the past. That tinge to Steve’s tenderness, asking just a little more than you could ask from a buddy, opening himself up, practically asking to be hurt. He’s still the same Steve beneath that solid hunk of a body, feeling the same way, and Bucky can’t take it, doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to think about what it means. He can hear the rest of the platoon still living it up in the tent, oblivious of this scene unfolding outside in the quiet night. It doesn’t make sense for soldiers to be acting this way. Bucky is so confused, as confused as he had been back in April 1941, it hasn’t got any easier, and to hide it he stays angry, bluffing slightly, turning away and cursing. It’s a bit of a show, but it feels good to blow up at Steve, to not let him dictate everything between them. He bursts out:

 “ _Fuck it, Steve! I don’t fucking know! What the hell am I supposed to do with you, look at you- I don’t even recognize you! What are you even doing here? What the_ fuck _. I thought I’d left you behind in New York. I thought we were done, and now you- you’re making everything so difficult!”_ His voice is strained, and he checks himself and spits out a choking laugh. _“Ok, ok, no, wait, look, here’s what I want you to do,_ Captain America _\- listen- go and find that Agent whatshername, take her back to your tent, and bang her fucking brains out. That’ll do you good, yeah? Did they supersize your dick along with the rest of you_?” He jeers, laughing, reeling away from Steve and lifting his hands. Mocking him. He laughs again, disbelievingly, up to the stars. Like: _I can’t believe this guy_.

 Steve’s frowning, his face fallen, turning away as if Bucky’s words are hurting him. They are hurting him. Steve never swears more than a damn, and he hates hearing the ugly words coming out of Bucky’s mouth. He’s being so hateful. But he understands. The past will never be erased, however much he’d like it to. And he is being inconsistent, asking Bucky for what he’d already rejected when he was trying to give it before. Forgiveness. Normality. Their friendship back. He’d been an idiot to think anything could be normal between them again. It can’t be. Not now, not then. Not after he had –

 

*

 

_It was spring in Brooklyn. Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes were taking a stroll down on the boardwalk, thinking of something to do that evening. Brooklyn Bridge loomed over them, a constant presence throughout their lives, and the breeze off the Hudson would’ve been almost pleasant if it didn’t smell so bad. Bucky had just got off work at the shipping office and he looked casual with his jacket slung over his shoulder and his tie loosened. It felt good to be out in the evening air. It was surprisingly hot for April._

_Since he’d started this job Steve had got in the habit of meeting him at the end of the day so they could walk home together. Steve’s freelancing as a cartoonist wasn’t going too great and while he had some work, there was still plenty of free time to spend with Bucky. Often they’d wend their way back to Steve’s apartment where his mom would fix them some dinner. Bucky only lived a few buildings away, and they’d stay up late playing cards. Or else they’d eat out from a street cart and go on to a bar. Bucky sometimes got them dates, always trying to set Steve up despite the transparent preference every single girl seemed to have for Bucky._

_Their lives had a quiet, unspoken rhythm that suited them both just fine. Bucky was actually making some money these days, meeting lots of people, and while Steve wasn’t particularly doing either of those things, he didn’t mind. His days were filled with drawing, daydreaming, walking in the city, and he spent most evenings of the week with Bucky. Steve reminisced about their boyhood a lot, but he was pretty happy with how their transition into adults was going. Things hadn’t changed too much. He felt glad that while Bucky was moving in bigger circles than just their neighborhood nowadays, he still seemed to want to spend more time with Steve than anyone else. The only blot on their horizon was the news of the war in Europe, which was becoming increasingly dire and making US involvement look more and more likely. The war preyed on Steve’s mind a little, but in general, life was calm and good. Spring was here, and he and Bucky were walking side by side in the warm evening air. He couldn’t ask for much more._

_Not_ much _more._

_“_ So. What’re we up to tonight?” _Bucky asked, stopping to lean his elbows on the railings of the boardwalk and stretching his legs out, eyes idly watching the other people walking by, occasionally alighting on a tight skirt and following it out of view. Steve joined him at the railing, facing the other way, out over the river. He crossed his arms on the flaking painted iron and rested his head on them, facing Bucky. The warm sunlight was right in his eyes, making him squint a little up at Bucky, whose face was in chiaroscuro from the light behind it. He examined Bucky’s profile. The soft dimple at the corner of his curved lips. The sharp point of his sideburns, and the little dark hairs coming up just below them, scattered up to the upflick of his eyebrow. His clear blue eyes. His little knobbly ear. The line of his jaw and throat, also lightly shaded by stubble and broken by the bump of his adam’s apple. And the hollow at the base of his throat, the glimpse of his chest beneath it with its dark curling hair, exposed where Bucky’d unfastened the top buttons of his shirt. Steve’s stomach swooped at the sight of that._

_He’d never examined this feeling he got when he looked at Bucky. It was what it was; it felt like it had always been that way. It was just that now they were out of school and they didn’t see each other pretty much all the time, he was more aware of it and it felt stronger- the growing excitement and raised pulse when he knew he’d get to see him soon, and the intense satisfaction of just looking at him, studying him, sketching him sometimes when Bucky would agree to it. He’d lie in bed and look at his drawings, always unsatisfied when they inevitably failed to capture a perfect likeness. Either the line of the lips was all wrong, or the hairline, or he’d put his eyes too close together. Frustrating, to be an artist in love. He’d have liked to have a snapshot of him, just to know he had it, tucked into the back of his sketchbook. That would feel good. Steve suddenly grinned._

“Let’s go do a photobooth,” _He said unexpectedly, standing up straight and slapping his hands to the railings, grinning at Bucky_. “It’ll be fun.” _They always said that when trying to convince the other to go along with some zany idea._

_Bucky quirked a smile, slightly narrowing his eyes at Steve. It was kind of a weird thing to suggest, but Bucky couldn’t see why not. There was a booth only a couple dozen paces farther down the boardwalk. He had some change in his pocket, and Steve seemed really keen._

“Sure, bud, but we’re gettin’ something to eat after that, I’m starvin’ to death over here.”

“It’s a deal.”

_Steve grabbed Bucky’s wrist and towed him down the walk, Bucky laughing and making a show at resisting, though if he really hadn’t wanted to go Steve could have tugged all he liked without getting him to move. They came up to the booth with its heavy baize curtain, and Steve bundled Bucky inside the little cupboard-like space before pulling it shut behind them. It was awfully cramped in there, and felt queerly cut off from the busy hot spring evening going on outside. Steve was feeling lightheaded, buoyed by the bravado of this plan, but a twist of anxiety was making his palms sweaty. He hoped Bucky didn’t think this was weird, wouldn’t guess Steve had any particular motive for suggesting it. Thankfully, Bucky seemed oblivious, busy finicking with the curtain and examining the instructions. Typical of Buck to be skeptical of a plan but then get all fussy making sure it was done properly in the end._

 

“Right, we got four tries at this thing. We better make ‘em good, I didn’t realize it would cost so much dough!” _Bucky grinned and plonked himself onto the bench, squeezing into the corner. There still wasn’t a hell of a lot of room for Steve, who sat down with his heart in his throat. Bucky hooked his arm round his shoulders, pressing Steve to his side- it was the only way they’d both fit._

“Good thing you’ve got such a skinny little ass, Rogers _” Bucky joked, eyes crinkling._

_Steve didn’t laugh. He told himself there was no reason to freak out; he’d been this close to Bucky tons of times, squished in at the bar of a tiny hole-in-the-wall, or swaying with the other passengers in the crush of the streetcar. Or struggling against the vice-like grip round his chest as he tried to get back to the fight Bucky had just hauled him out of. He guessed the difference was that they were all alone in here, and it was such an incredibly small space. It was very warm, too. Steve swallowed and tried to relax under the hot weight of his arm as Bucky fumbled the coins into the slot._

The first flash of the camera took them both by surprise, capturing two white and startled faces, jumping slightly out of their seat.

 

The second flash illuminated Bucky sticking his tongue out of the corner of his mouth, his eyes crossed to make a gruesome face. Steve’s pale face by his side is slightly blurred with movement.

 

The third captures Bucky laughing uproariously at his own funniness, his smile joyfully wide and genuine, his hand tight around Steve’s upper arm. Steve’s face is in profile, gazing at Bucky with an intent look.

 

The fourth photo is mostly filled with Steve’s shoulders and the back of his head as he rises up out of the seat to grasp Bucky’s face and press his lips to it.You can just make out the scared look in Bucky’s eye, framed between Steve’s fingers and the edge of the photo.

 

_Steve’s lips brushed the corner of Bucky’s mouth, grazing the stubble there- he hadn’t been able to aim very well as he rushed upwards, completely forgetting they were in front of the camera, lost to everything but Bucky’s closeness, driven crazy by it, until he’d done this crazy thing. Time stood still for a moment with Steve holding Bucky’s face, until he pulled back slightly, meeting Bucky’s eyes, which were blank with shock, then puzzled, then dark with something unreadable. Then furious. There was no mistaking that. Steve dropped his hands like they’d been burnt and opened his mouth to speak, but what he could possibly say he had no idea-_

_Steve never got the chance to think of anything because just then Bucky shoved him away, off of the seat and clean out the booth. He windmilled, tried to stay on his feet, but inevitably fell down onto his ass, raising a gasp from a couple that he’d narrowly avoided bowling over. He jumped up immediately, his hair in disarray and a wild look on his face._

_“_ Bucky _!” he cried hopelessly, holding onto his left wrist. It had taken the brunt of his fall, and was throbbing badly._

_Bucky was out of the booth, his face bright red and still furious. He grabbed Steve by the upper arm and steered him firmly off the walk, out of the way of the curious gaze of passers-by, round a corner into an alley clogged with trash cans. He cast a quick eye to make sure no-one was looking before he shoved Steve up against the wall, bunching his hand into the front of his shirt to hold him up by his sternum. Steve choked, struggled, raised his hands in supplication. He didn’t dare touch Bucky, to try and get him off- and he knew it would be futile in any case. Bucky loomed over him, his face close and dark and livid. His breath was coming out in ragged pants, and for one wild, crazy moment of hope Steve thought he was going to kiss him. He was sorely wrong._

 

“What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing, Steve?”

“Bucky, wait, I can explain-”

“Oh really, you can explain? I sure would love to hear that, cuz I know for damn certain what this looks like to _me_.”

_Steve couldn’t say anything. He gasped, struggling for grip with his toes- Bucky was hurting him. He raised a hand to Bucky’s wrist, to try to get him to loosen his grip-_

_He dropped his hand suddenly, and Steve stumbled to catch himself, hand flying up to massage the base of his throat. Shamefully, his eyes were filled with tears._

“I’m sorry,” _he whispered, his eyes cast down. But then his natural courage and determination came into play. He had never kowtowed to bullies and he wouldn’t start now, even if the bully this time was his best friend. He lifted his chin defiantly and met Bucky’s eye with a haughty glare._

“Actually, no. I’m not. I’m not sorry. I won’t apologize for something I don’t regret. I meant it, Bucky. I won’t take it back.”

_Bucky sharply inhaled and his eyes widened, flickering over Steve’s face, not holding his gaze. He felt like he was drowning, like he didn’t know which way was up, like he couldn’t think straight for want of oxygen. He couldn’t cope with this. He couldn’t look at Steve. He frowned, turned away- the only thing he could do. Spat on the floor._

“If that’s how you really feel, Steve, then I hope it makes you happy. Cuz it makes _me_ feel _sick_.”

_It was like a punch in the gut. Steve gasped like he’d really been winded, and could do nothing but watch helplessly as Bucky clenched his jaw and worked his mouth as if he wanted to say something more, before turning sharply on his heel and marching out of the alley without a backward glance._

_Steve stumbled after him for a few steps with his fists clenched, screaming at Bucky’s retreating back:_

_“_ So what happens to always, now, Bucky? WHAT HAPPENS TO ‘TIL THE END OF THE LINE?”

_The pledge they’d made as boys many summers ago. That they’d always have each other, always have each other’s backs. That they’d go down fighting. To the end of the line. It had been innocent, childish, but for Steve it had the sanctity of a vow, and he knew that Bucky had felt the same way. Up ‘til now. The words were useless now, bouncing off Bucky’s set shoulders as if Steve had thrown a piece of crumpled paper after him._

_In truth, the words stabbed at Bucky’s heart and he sobbed dryly as he hurried away, but he didn’t turn and he didn’t slow down. He just wanted to get out of there. Wanted a drink. Wanted to forget everything._

_Steve stopped short, shock and grief coursing through him. He would never have done what he’d done if he’d thought that- that_ this _would happen. No, he wouldn’t have been so stupid, wouldn’t have risked everything. He wouldn’t have done it if some part of him hadn’t hoped that something more was within his grasp, there for him if he would just dare to reach out and take it. But all he was left with now was a hurt wrist and tears on his cheeks. And some photographs. He walked slowly round the corner. Bucky had already vanished out of sight. Steve approached the booth._

_The tray where the photos should have been was empty. He cast around, but they were nowhere to be seen. Maybe the wind had blown them into the Hudson. Maybe some little kids had found them and were currently giggling over them in a corner of the fairground. It didn’t matter. They were gone._

*

No, _that_ was _not_ Steve’s third (first) kiss. You really think that that poor miserable tragic thing counts as a kiss? We’re getting there, fair reader. Let’s leave sorry Brooklyn behind and head back to Europe.

 

We’re going to London.

 

*

 

This is a pub. It’s not so terribly different from an American bar, but there is something indefinably English about it nonetheless. James Falsworth is in his element, calling everyone “old chap” and forcing them to drink horrible bitter ale, making fun of their “weak American palettes”. An underbelly of cigarette smoke hangs low over the soldiers’ heads. Someone’s banging out a sentimental army tune on an incongruous piano. Steve is convincing his boys, the rag-tag crew who’d proven themselves to each other in the liberation of the POWs, to join his mad crusade against Hydra. Not that it needs much effort. They love Steve and most of them would give an arm and a leg (and might yet have to) to be a part of such a glamorous and daring mission, to be led into battle by a superhero. They all pledge themselves to Steve, whose heart swells with affection for these brave, funny men. With that, the business part of the evening is over and the serious drinking is about to begin. It’s Steve’s round.

 He orders the drinks (a Bud for himself, surreptitiously) and hesitates before slipping round to the back bar. He knows Bucky’s there, and knows he would have been listening. He slides onto the stool next to him and before he can say anything Bucky opens the conversation with a typical one liner.

  _“See, told you they’re all idiots”_

 He smirks and sips his drink. There’s currently a slightly uneasy truce between the two of them, necessitated by the sudden acceleration of Steve’s position in the army and the need for him to have his men around him. They’d avoided talking more than strictly necessary, sticking to war-related topics only, and it had gone unspoken that Bucky would be an integral part of his team. But tonight Steve wants to confirm it with him, ask him properly. He steels himself, asks the question. He’s not 100% sure what Bucky’s response will be, and he’s nervous.

_“How about you? Ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?”_

Steve can’t quite yet call himself “Captain America” with an entirely straight face. His eyes are locked on Bucky, searching for a clue as to what he’s going to reply.

“ _Hell no.”_

Steve does a really good job of not letting his face fall, before he hears Bucky continue:

  _“Little guy from Brooklyn, who was too dumb not to run away from a fight. I’m following him.”_

Time stands still for Steve, his eyes fixated on Bucky. He’s so relieved, and so happy, and so churned up inside, to know that Bucky has chosen to stay alongside him, that he still thinks of him that way, still thinks fondly of the past, even now. And it’s more than that- it’s knowing that Bucky _knows_ him, remembers him how he used to be, how he still truly is. Steve loves his new body, his strength, the fact that they allow him to fulfill the duty that he’d always known was his, but it gets lonely sometimes to have people treat him so differently than what he’s used to, at odds with how he still sees himself deep inside. To know he still has Bucky, who shares his past and still sees that little guy- it’s powerful and so important to him. Steve drops his attention to his drink to hide his emotions. Bucky breaks the moment with a joke. Typical.

_“But you’re keeping the outfit, right?”_

Steve smiles.

_“You know what? It’s kinda growing on me.”_

 

They simultaneously become aware that the pub full of raucous voices raised in song has become raggedly quiet and turn to see what’s causing the interruption. It’s Peggy Carter, driving every man in the room wild in a bright red dress. You wouldn’t think rationing was going on, to look at her. She steadies herself, pretending to not be aware of the attention on her, and approaches Bucky and Steve. Greets them with a forced formality. Well, greets Steve.

_“Captain.”_

_“Agent Carter.”_

Steve is sweating heavily in his handsome dark officer’s uniform. The pub suddenly feels stifling. For once in his life, he wants to run away. Having Peggy and Bucky in the room with him at the same time is not his idea of fun. Bucky evidently doesn’t exactly relish the prospect either, but he does his best to play the womanizer.

_“Ma’am.”_

So charming. Peggy doesn’t even glance at him, is utterly fixated on Steve. Steve is becoming more and more uncomfortable.

_“Howard has some equipment for you to try. Tomorrow morning?”_

_“Sounds good.”_

Peggy looks at Steve, intensely. She could be fairly described as smoldering. Bucky’s eyes are on Steve too, as if gauging his reaction to Peggy’s provocative manner. Steve tries to sink into the ground. In the background the other soldiers have worked themselves up to full song again. There’s a sound of clanking pint glasses. Peggy looks prim.

_“I see your top squad are prepping for duty?”_

Bucky tries again to insert himself into the conversation: _“You don’t like music?”_

 _“I do actually.”_ She addresses her answer to Steve, as if he’d asked the question. Bucky raises his eyebrows.

_“I might, even, when all this is over, go dancing.”_

Oh, she’s keeping it English and proper, but her bosom is practically heaving as she looks at Steve. Steve is like a rabbit stuck in headlights. Bucky gives a last effort to make himself impinge on Carter’s radar.

_“So what’re we waiting for?”_

_“The right partner.”_

_That’d be Steve then_ , Bucky thinks to himself. _Well, he’s right there, lady, don’t hold yourself back.._.

 Steve cringes to hear Peggy quoting his words back to him. How had she even remembered that? Oh god, if he’s given her the wrong impression- in that moment he realizes he hasn’t acted terribly well. He’s led Peggy on, however unintentionally. She’s making it clear that she expects something from him now- a dance, at very least- and Steve feels dreadful. He’s so grateful for all Peggy’s done for him and her unwavering support, and he was so used to women just looking through him, that he hadn’t appreciated that she could really be attracted to him or that he could have the potential to hurt her. And, being honest, he knows he’s enjoyed the charged looks they’ve exchanged, had contributed to them, had let Peggy imagine that there might be more to come. But it hadn’t meant much, he’d thought. He’d still kind of thought of himself as that skinny little dweeb, who Peggy felt protective and caring towards, and he realizes now that he had been doing so as a defense mechanism, allowing himself not take things seriously or think too hard about his actions concerning her.

 He thinks back to when he’d found Bucky alive and brought him back from the factory. He guesses that that was the moment he’d personally started retreating from any growing flirtation with Peggy, because things had got too complicated, but he hadn’t thought it needed to be talked about, that he needed to take Peggy’s feelings into account. What a jackass. He’d been so self-involved, everything in his heart was so messed up and tangled and he’d worried almost solely about his own feelings. Poor Peggy. He likes her so much. In a different world, maybe they could have had something. Or in a different world Steve would have stayed small and unattractive, and Peggy would never have thought of him that way. Either way, it doesn’t matter. In this world, it’s not possible. Steve’s not available. He has too much else going on inside him that she could never understand. Too much past.

 Peggy seems to finally sense the tension in the air, and gathers herself to leave. Or perhaps she just has some place to be. Maybe she’s dressed up for a date with Stark. That would be a relief.

_“0800, Captain.”_

Military time helps Steve snap into safe, regulated soldier-mode, where he knows what to do. He practically salutes.

_“Yes ma’am! I’ll be there.”_

 

There’s a slightly stunned silence as Agent Carter stalks away, to the admiration of the rest of the pub. The volume of raised voices returns to ear-drum-bursting as the door swings shut behind her. Bucky laughs in disbelief.

“ _I’m invisible! I’m turning in to you, it’s like a horrible dream!”_

Steve gives a half-hearted smile. He appreciates (for once) Bucky making a joke to smooth the moment over, but the episode has made him unsettled. He really doesn’t want Bucky to get the wrong idea about him and Peggy, even though it doesn’t matter now. Would never have mattered.

Fatigued, he offers a stale joke in return, riffing on the dynamic they used to have back home, when it was always Steve who was the gooseberry.

_“Don’t take it so hard. Maybe she’s got a friend.”_

_“I’d prefer an identical twin. But seriously Rogers, you were lucky to escape with your life back there. That woman looked ravenous.”_

_“Aw, come on Buck, don’t talk about Peggy that way. She’s a good woman and a damn fine agent. You should have some respect.”_

_“Yeah, yeah. Steve’s always so chivalrous…”_ Bucky waves his hand dismissively as he strolls off to use the bathroom. The whole thing for some unidentifiable reason has left kind of a bad taste in his mouth, and he’s keen to be alone for a few moments so they can change the subject and move past it.

 

*

 

Steve sighs and presses his eyeballs with his fingers. This whole evening’s getting to be a bit too much- first the emotional moment of the Howling Commandos being born, then the heart stopping yo-yo of Bucky’s decision to join them too, and then this slightly farcical moment with Peggy. Even though he knows it won’t do anything much, thanks to his damned supersoldier metabolism, Steve wants another drink. He heaves himself on to a stool at the end of the bar and signals the barman for a beer. Resting his cheek on his palm he gazes blankly down at the sticky ring-marked wood and soaked beer mats- and sees Bucky’s wallet sitting by his elbow. He must have forgotten to pick it up when they jumped up to greet Peggy.

 Steve isn’t thinking about what he’s doing when he picks up the wallet and opens it; he’s just occupying his hands while he waits for his drink. If he’d thought, he probably wouldn’t have done it. It feels a bit rude to look in another man’s wallet; it’s probably a breach of etiquette. It’s a private thing, a man’s wallet. This thought is lazily crossing his mind when his eyes light on the little clear window in one of the leather leaves of the wallet. The place where you put the pictures of your loved ones. His blood runs cold. Then hot, then hotter, rushing to his face and pounding in his ears.

 

Bucky has a photo of him and Steve in his wallet.

One of _the_ photos. The only ones.

 

It’s the third that the photobooth camera had snapped- the best one. In the little thumbnail of an image, in crisp black and white, Bucky’s face is split open with mirth, captured in a moment of beautiful laughter, his arm squeezing Steve tight, and Steve- Steve gasps at the sight of himself. He’s so _small,_ he’d forgotten quite how small, and the look on his face- the look on his face. He’s looking at Bucky with pure adoration, with love, with a dark undercurrent of lust. It’s such an incredibly powerful look that it’s hard for Steve to witness it, to stomach having it printed there forever in black and white for anyone to see. It’s too raw, too intimate, too private.

 He’s instantly transported back to that moment in time, can feel the fizzing in his brain and pounding in his chest when he’d turned to Bucky, forgetting all about posing for the camera in his sudden overwhelming desire for him, as he’d felt the decision soaring in his veins. _I’m going to kiss him. I have to kiss him._

And he’d leapt up with a gasp like the pressure had just been released from a gas canister about to explode, and in one movement placed one hand on Bucky’s left ear and one on his right cheek and pressed his lips to the corner of Bucky’s curling mouth. As the flash flashed and the camera whirred and captured the worst moment of his life. The best moment of his life. The most honest.

Devastatingly honest.

 Steve’s unaware of the passing of time. His head is bent over the wallet, his hands cradling it close to him. He can’t take his eyes off the photo. The memory is too strong, and clamoring in his too-crowded brain are a myriad questions, a million answers and countless possibilities. He tries to breath, to assess what he knows, to ground himself in the facts. The photos weren’t swept out on to the river, to bleed and blur and drown their secrets. They weren’t lost to the sticky pockets of schoolboys to be passed around by grubby hands and scandalize the schoolyard. Bucky had taken them, as he’d stormed away from Steve, he’d snatched them up from the booth.

 Why? Had he meant to destroy them? Rip them up and scatter them into the river, ashamed and angry and wanting to get rid of this awful evidence? Maybe that had been his intention, but in the end he’d kept them. He’d cut them up carefully with scissors and put one in his wallet- this one, the one in which Steve’s love for him is so terribly tangible. When had he done it? Steve can’t imagine- maybe it was the night before he left for war. When they’d thought they’d been parting forever, with the awful rift between them. The rift caused by- this. Or else sometime in that eight months, when they hadn’t seen each other, after Bucky had stalked away from that trash-strewn alley. He’d kept the photo and he’d tucked it away, safe, but where he could see it. See Steve. Steve thinks back to the time Bucky had tried to talk to him after his mom’s funeral and invite him home. Maybe he’d been wrong to dismiss his motives so summarily, to presume Bucky was just being his patronizing and busy-bodying self. Maybe he’d wanted to reconcile as much as Steve secretly had, had been fighting through a lump in his throat just as Steve had been-

 But Bucky doesn’t feel this way. Bucky thought Steve’s feelings were disgusting, horrifying. Bucky had rejected him. Bucky had abandoned him. Bucky had never spoken of it again.

 This is impossible. Steve must be mistaken. The photo can’t be as obvious as feels it is, it’s only that he can read the expression on his face because he’d been there, could remember what it meant, could see it from the inside. To anyone else this would just be a picture of a pair of buddies back in the good old days, before war had ripped them apart. A million guys in Europe must have a photo of their best friend back home in their wallets, just like this, they don’t mean anything and this doesn’t mean anything-

Steve suddenly notices that there is another photo behind the first one. Its corner is slightly dog-eared, and Steve can see a second white paper border behind it. His hand trembles as he fumbles at the opening and withdraws the two small rectangles. They flutter to the sticky surface of the bar and Steve snatches them up. There’s the one he’s already seen, and then the other. Maybe it’s of Bucky’s sister, or some sweetheart he’d picked up somewhere.

 It’s not. It’s the fourth photo. The final one. The damning one. Steve’s stomach clenches. No wonder Bucky had hidden it from obvious view. It’s an awful photo in some ways. There’s no doubt what’s going on. Bucky’s eye, printed so small and clear, is a picture of fear and shock. He’d had no idea this was coming. Steve twists his lips, frowns. Regrets. But Bucky’s _kept_ it, tucked it safely away, and the card of both photos is worn and crumpled, as if they’ve been taken in and out of the wallet and looked at many times. Steve’s forehead is deeply creased with confusion, with shock, with dreadful hope.

He’s thinking there could still be some reasonable explanation, is trying to kill that sickening hope bubbling inside him, when he flips the first picture and sees what’s written on the back of it:

In pencil, in Bucky’s handwriting, smudged and faded, but still legible:

_“To the end of the line”_

_Steve. 4/21/41_

 

*  


 

Steve slips the pictures back into their slot, closes the wallet, and drops it into his lap as Bucky comes out of the bathroom and pads across the sticky pub carpet to take his seat next to him.

  _“Looks like the guys are fixin’ to move on someplace else, we joining ‘em?”_ Bucky asks, picking up his glass and finishing the last dregs. Steve takes a long time before he answers, making Bucky look at him curiously. Steve seems to shake himself.

  _“Sure, Buck. Yeah. Let’s get going.”_ He drains his beer. The two men get to their feet. Put on their caps. Bucky shrugs on his greatcoat. Steve keeps the wallet hidden in his hand, held close to his leg. They tail the throng of men spilling out of the door into the foggy London night, but Steve lags behind, and Bucky slows and turns to frown at him, wondering what’s up. Steve’s acting funny. He can’t be all that cut up about Agent Carter, can he? That doesn’t make sense.

 

_“Hey, Bucky.”_

Steve comes to a complete halt. Bucky stops in front of him. The raucous noise of drunken soldiers fades on up the road, leaving them alone. Bucky looks at him, puzzled. For no reason, he feels a little scared. He remembers the last time they were alone out in the night, back in Italy. What a disaster that had been. He doesn’t want to do it again. Things finally seem to be slightly calm between them now, and he doesn’t want to fracture that fragile peace.

 

_“Yeah? What’s going on, Steve?”_

 

_“Think you’re forgetting something.”_

He’s holding something out to Bucky.

It’s his wallet.

The realization hits Bucky like a freight train. Steve has his wallet. Steve has picked it up. Steve has opened it. Looked in it. Steve has seen-

 This is Bucky’s worst nightmare. His eyes bulge and his mouth hangs open in horror. His eyes fixate on Steve’s, seeing the silent question in them. _Explain it, Bucky. What does it mean? Please explain._ Bucky’s eyes flicker to the right like a trapped animal. He snatches the wallet from Steve’s hand.

And runs.

 

*

 

Neither of them knows this city and Steve is getting concerned that they’re going to get really lost, when Bucky finally starts to slow. It had been apparent immediately that Bucky would never be able to outrun Steve, and Steve almost feels a little sheepish at the ease with which he keeps up with him, not even out of breath, staying a decent distance behind so it doesn’t seem _too_ easy.  Bucky obviously needs to run. He pounds round a corner and Steve slows up even more as he takes it half a minute or so after him, and eases to a walk. They’ve reached the Thames. He has a vague feeling they shouldn’t be here; they’re surrounded by big, serious, military-looking buildings, and there are sandbags everywhere, like the war command is preparing for the Germans to sail straight into London down the estuary. But Steve’s not exactly going to turn back now.

He can see Bucky up ahead, leaning against the solid concrete of the Victoria Embankment wall, beneath one of the big ornate iron streetlamps. It’s not lit- it’s the blackout. But there’s a bright moon, and Steve can see quite clearly. Bucky is leaning over the wall, staring down at the black river slapping the concrete a few meters below. His shoulders are heaving as he regains his breath, and his head is bowed.

Steve approaches him carefully, warily, like he’s afraid Bucky’s going to bolt again, but Bucky doesn’t even look up as Steve reaches his side. Steve realizes his shoulders are shaking with more than just breathlessness, and his mouth is pulled open in a rictus of pain. He’s sobbing. Bucky is crying his heart out.

Steve feels tears rise to his own eyes at the sight, and his heart feels crushed against his ribcage; it’s so brutal, his love for Bucky. As strong as ever, _stronger_ , hardened and toughened by long months of torment and trials, by all that he’s been through. All that they’ve both been through.

 He doesn’t stop to think about it, just does what he needs to do. He lifts Bucky up from the wall and pulls him to him, folding him safely in his arms. His right hand cradling the back of Bucky’s neck, and his left screwed tightly into the back of his coat. He doesn’t loosen his strong arms as Bucky struggles within them, trying to get away. He still can’t accept it, not even now. But Steve’s not going to let him go. He holds on tight.

Eventually a shudder goes through Bucky’s body as the tension suddenly leaves him, and he lifts his arms slowly to Steve’s back, holding on tentatively at first, but then tighter, digging his hands in. He lets his face sink into Steve’s shoulder. His tears are still flowing freely, but silently now, soaking the rough wool of the uniform beneath his cheek.

He hears Steve make a soft noise as their bodies lean into each other, and feels his fingers curling in the hair at the back of his head. His cap is knocked to the floor, unheeded. Bucky lets out a tiny gasp and turns his face to Steve’s neck, blindly searching for skin, and he’s really pressing himself against Steve now, holding him just as tightly, he’s pushing him up against the low wall, he’s letting himself go, he’s finally letting himself-

 Steve’s mouth is against his ear, his breath hot as he whispers, low and almost unconsciously, repeating in a hoarse rush: _“I know. I know, Bucky. It’s ok. I know. I know,”_

It’s partly what you say to anything that’s in pain _._

 _I know. I feel it, I acknowledge it. You’re not alone. I’m here with you._ _I know._

But he’s also saying:

I _know._ I know what those photos mean. I know what you’ve been hiding all this time. Hiding from me, from yourself. I know it. I’ve always known it. You can know it too, finally. It’s finally safe.

 Bucky nods against Steve’s neck, his face crumpling with tears again. It’s ok. Steve knows. Steve’s here. He’s always been here, always been waiting for him, waiting for this. Just like in the photo, that he’s studied so many times just to see, one more time, the look on Steve’s face. He’d gone round and around, trying to deny it, but the evidence was there in black and white, and in his memories. Steve was in love with him. And try as he had, Bucky had not been able to let that go, or turn his back on it, and now, for the first time, he’s letting himself feel it.

 Steve’s hand is at his cheek, roughly stroking it, and Bucky chokes to feel how big it is now, compared to before, when the hands that had pressed against his face had been so small and slender and soft. Bucky has relived that memory so many times. Involuntarily, mostly, and with anger, almost always shaking it away from himself, turning away from his feelings. All he let himself feel was regret that he’d lost his best friend, had treated him so cruelly and never apologized. But sometimes, very late at night, when he was alone, he would open his wallet and look at the pictures. He’d look at the way Steve’d looked at him and tremble and try so hard not to feel it. More than once he’d meant to tear the pictures up, or burn them. They were dangerous. They were incriminating. 

But eight months had passed, and he’d got a handle on himself, but he still hadn’t got rid of the photos. He’d succeeded in subsuming his confused passion beneath the surface, he’d tried to make amends, but it was useless. He’d never named the thing, admitted it to himself, permitted himself to talk of it. Not even with Steve, who would have understood. _Especially_ not with him. He’d feebly tried to mend things, and when it hadn’t worked, he’d just scrunched everything down and covered it with booze, and fucking, and fighting- the war had been a godsend in that regard. But he’d kept the photos and taken them with him, when he’d had the chance to leave it all behind and finally forget Steve, and every time he’d looked at them his heart had broken and his confusion and his anger and his pain had built. Those damned pictures. They would never allow him to forget. Steve’s look. His hands, his lips. And Bucky’s rage, his awful rage that had ruined everything. He knew now where that rage came from- it was the same place that was shaking him now, making him desperately press himself against Steve. No wonder he had exploded so violently. He couldn’t comprehend this, not until now, now he feels Steve’s arms around him. But he’d tried; he’d tried so damned hard to fight it, and if he’d never seen Steve again, like he expected, he knows he would have won.

But Steve had come and saved his life. Steve had come for him, and ruined everything.

 Bucky realizes he’s been so wrong. Nothing’s ruined. This is not ruinous. If he’d known that this could happen, that he could sink into Steve’s arms, that he would _love_ it, that it wouldn’t feel sick and wrong- that it would feel so _good_ -

 Steve’s still murmuring in his ear, voice thick with the tears squeezed out from the force of his emotion, which scald Bucky’s cheek-

  _“I love you, Bucky, I’ve always loved you-“_

  _“Steve,”_ Bucky gasps, overwhelmed, clutching him, trying to get as close as he possibly can. His eyes are tight shut, his mouth open, hot against Steve’s neck, and Steve is holding his face firmly, and he’s turning it towards his own-

They’re kissing. Neither of them could say who had made the final motion to bridge the space and press their lips together. It’s just happening. Their mouths are open, and their eyes are shut, and they’re kissing. Steve moans into Bucky’s mouth and presses their lips harder together, his nose mashed against his cheekbone, both hands to his face, digging his fingers in, bearing his whole body against him, feeling the crushing love and desire shake his entire body. He’s kissing Bucky. They’re really kissing. It’s finally happening. And Bucky’s not pulling away this time, he’s not shocked, or appalled, he’s returning the kiss ferociously, one hand wrapped around Steve’s wrist and the other to his face, and Steve tastes Bucky’s tongue for the first time, and the smell of him is rich in his nose, and he’s inhaling deeply, just trying to breathe him in-

 Eventually they break away, both panting for breath, still in each other’s arms. Bucky pulls back slightly, to look into Steve’s face. So close. So dear to him. So _tall_. After all this time. They gaze at each other in silence, both more than a little overwhelmed. Bucky smiles, shyly. Steve grins.

_“Sergeant Barnes, I do believe that’s the first time you’ve ever looked shy in your entire life.”_

_“Well, Captain Rogers, I gotta admit, I never been kissed quite like that before.”_

Steve says:

 _“Neither have I.”_ And he knows that Bucky knows that in fact he’s never been kissed before, ever, and Bucky tucks this knowledge away as a secret joy.

They both grin, then look away. In truth, they are both shy. They drop their arms from round each other, and turn to look at the black and silver river, leaning their elbows on the wall. Their sides are pressed close together. Steve puts his arm around Bucky; he just can’t resist being as close as he can, now, while he can. Bucky tenses for a microsecond before relaxing against him, trying not to feel like he’s surrendering. He has to consciously tell himself that he wants this. It’s going to take some getting used to that idea. He sighs, looks out over the foreign river.

 

_“Well, it’s not the Hudson, but it’ll do.”_

_“Do you think we’ll ever see it again, Buck?”_

Bucky pauses. Looks at Steve’s handsome profile. Wishes they were home.

“ _I don’t know, Steve. I hope so. Do you?”_

Steve stoops and picks up Bucky’s cap from the floor, giving it a brush and placing it back on Bucky’s head. He’s suddenly desperately homesick. He doesn’t know what they’re doing here, in this strange city, for one more night, so transient, before war will once again become their whole reality. He wants this night to last forever, just him and Bucky, alone together, for always. But they’ve got to go back. He squeezes Bucky’s arm through his coat, tries to smile.

 

_“Yeah, I think we will. We’ll go back, and we’ll see it together, and we’ll be home.”_

Bucky turns and smiles at him, appreciating Steve’s eternal optimism, and then he places a hand on his shoulder and presses his lips to Steve’s, firmly and deliberately. Steve gives him such a look when he pulls away that it hurts Bucky’s stomach. It’s the look from the photo, and it’s still devastating- only Bucky can take it, now, can feel it warming him rather than tearing him up inside. He kisses Steve once more, lingeringly, saying what he can’t quite yet in words, and Steve smiles this time, just transparently happy and thrilled and counting his lucky stars, and Bucky can’t help but smile too.

 

_“I should’ve done that a long time ago. I’m sorry I was such an ass.”_

_“You weren’t an ass, Bucky- or if you were, then I was, too. I understand.”_

They smile at one another, sadly, ruing their lost time, and Steve takes Bucky’s hand in his own, before they turn and slowly start walking away from the river, together.

 

 

*

 

And that’s the end of the true story of Captain America’s third first kiss.

 

*

 

Bucky and Steve wouldn’t get to kiss too many more times, in the end, before the disastrous mission on the train in the Alps that would rip them apart for seventy years, for forever; before the light went out of Steve’s life. Any chance they could, they’d slip away together, to talk, to repair the threads of their friendship and knit themselves together again. To kiss. But there aren’t too many chances for that kind of thing, in a war.

 

Steve’s one solace was that they had had this night, that they had come together at last and against all the odds. That he knew Bucky loved him too, and went down loving him, right up at the end of the line.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Dis my first fic so be nice, but also I would appreciate criticism!


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